Page 8 of The Princes of Stone and Steel

“I beg your pardon, a what?”

“A Dryad.” He laughed. “Dryads are fairies. Imelda and her entire village populate the trees surrounding this clearing. Have you never seen a Dryad?”

She rose, brushing the dirt from her legs and knees. The fairy flitted down to rest on the bridge of her shoulder. “I’ve never seen a fairy of any kind before. They are legend in my world.”

“If they are legend now, they must have existed at some time in your history. Sad what friends you are missing out on.”

The little Dryad whispered into Millicent’s ear, a tone so delicate, it should’ve been inaudible. Should’ve been, but every word was as clear as if yelled by a heralder throughout the city streets.

“Why can I understand you?”

“My home.” Imelda cooed.

“Outside of this clearing, we cannot understand their language or words,” Mármaro spoke for the tiny fey. “It’s the magic of this place, their dwelling, which allows communication between us.”

“Magic indeed.” Just as the words slipped past Millicent’s lips, the clearing was lit up as brightly as staring into the sun. Round balls of glowing golden light appeared in the tree branches by the thousands. Warmth from those glowing balls of light saturated her skin and heart, flooding a feeling of love and happiness throughout her body.

She could have stayed and lived out the rest of her life in that very spot and been very happy about doing so. It was as if there was no time among the fairies as she and Mármaro danced to an enchanted melody. Slowly, though, the song began to fade, and the glow to dim. They were to take their leave of the fairy kingdom, continuing on into the thicket.

“Please wait. You’re going too fast,” Millicent pleaded, calling out to her new friend.

They hadn’t gone very far when Mármaro once again had to carry her piggyback, as her feet had found every stump and tree root along the path. A butterfly flitted around her head, coming to rest on the tip of Millicent’s nose. Its wings glistened metallic—copper, silver, gold and bronze. To gaze upon it, one would think it as heavy as lead, but it bore no weight atop her face. Her eyes crossed trying to see it clearly.

“Hold your arms out,” Mármaro ordered.

She did as he asked. Within minutes, there was scarcely a patch of flesh left visible. Millicent found herself covered from fingertip to fingertip by the delicate creatures.

The butterflies tickled. Her urge to sneeze was so strong, but she held it off for as long as possible before giving in. As the sneeze erupted, hundreds of wings fluttered and legs sprang up in unison. Finally able to, she laughed heartily, scratching gently at her nose and arms.

“Shh…” Mármaro put a finger to his lips.

“What?” she mouthed without actually letting any sound escape her throat.

“We aren’t alone.”

Birch bark ripped like sandpaper against her exposed back as he pressed them both flat against a tree to avoid being seen. Content to wait for his cue, Millicent dug her fingernails deeply into the tree bark, scraping pulp deep under the quick as he set her down.

Rumblings of angry groans rippled out across the forest floor, like a pebble thrown into the center of a lake. The world around her appeared to change. Once vibrant colors dulled to muted tones in response to whatever lurked about around them. Millicent froze as terror gripped her feet, seizing them captive, unable to move forward. “What is that?”

“Stay close.” Mármaro warned.

She held on, squeezing his hand tightly. They both strived to remain silent, but her heart beat so wildly, it felt impossible to imagine that it wouldn’t betray their position. They crept from tree to tree trying to avoid the loudest ripples.

“Ailuranthrope.” Mármaro barely whispered, almost as a thought not meant to be spoken. Millie squeezed his stone hand so tightly color left her own. He shook his head as if remembering she was with him. “Werecat,” he continued. “But why? They never stray this far south. Even still, they never travel alone.”

The pair started to turn back toward his home when a second monstrous cry echoed from the trees ahead of them. The leaves rustled. The sound of claws clicked along the hardened ground.

A creature emerged slowly from the thick, as if stalking its prey—nose tilted upward to welcome their scent dancing over the wind. As Millicent and Mármaro kept their undivided attention on the creature before them, hot breath tickled the back of Millicent’s neck. A small whimper escaped her. Mármaro whipped his head around to see part of the werecat’s massive frame. It smelled them but hadn’t seen them yet, evident, as they were still alive. But one wrong move would surely prove fatal.

Her chest rose and fell rapidly. They were about to die; she felt it in her soul. That was, until a hole opened up behind her legs. A hole just wide enough for a girl her frame to pass through appeared at the base of the birch. She gasped, startling Mármaro. He looked down and nudged her backward a shuffling step.

“Drop,” he whispered, motioning toward the hole with his chin.

“Drop? Are you serious?” she whispered back.

“Drop,” he said again. Millicent considered for a moment what could be waiting at the bottom of the hole, but only a moment, as she supposed it couldn’t be worse than impending death at the claws and very sharp teeth of a Werecat. So Millicent sucked in a deep breath, closed her eyes and dropped.

Tumbling slowly, the heavy smell of wood pulp invaded her nose and taste buds. Millicent opened her eyes just as she spilled out into a quaint parlor. How could she be in a parlor? She hit the floor, thudding to stop. Mármaro spilled through that same hole just behind, landing on top of her. They laid for a moment or two with their bodies pressed together. Her breath caught, and not from his weight, as he stared deeply and with great intensity. She could feel the blush spread over her cheeks. A feeling Millicent had never experienced before swept over her, and so she leaned up slowly, stopping just shy of his lips, waiting for him to close the remaining distance.

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